Indifference
by Sazerac
Summary: REVISED. Allen Walker should be dead. Everything points to proof that he should be dead - after all, how can two months for him pass as a hundred years in the real world? And just who's pulling the strings? *GoF/Alt.Noah's Ark arc*
1. A prologue of sorts ::

**Chapter revised 2010-12-22.**

This story is inspired by _Those who do not belong_ by _seasnake.756_ (and listening to the Moonlight Sonata) and literally, I mean 'inspired'. This is my own story, and shouldn't be compared to my inspiration. I do hope you enjoy reading, and the "alternative" events of the Noah's Ark arc should be clearer in this version.

**Note: This is not a story you can rush through, and you'll just get confused if you do so.** It's very disjointed, and purposefully written so. It's got large gaps which aren't specified in the story but are in fact covered in Goblet of Fire, and require some thinking back - it's not intended to be just a rephrasing of the book, it's a highlight of the changes Allen's presence has on the people within it.

* * *

_It was entirely his fault, wasn't it?_

_It was all because of him that the Dark Religious Organization lost most of its weapons all at once, wasn't it?_

_It was all because that he had hesitated, and caused all of them to be taken into the grasp of that hateful phantom of Death, wasn't it?_

_Wasn't it?_

**A prelude of sorts~~**

Since that day in which he had taken control of the Ark, halting and reversing the download of the egg and lost Kanda, Krory, Lavi, Lenalee, Chaoji and General Cross in the process, he had made the mistake of returning to Headquarters after finding his other self. The Musician.

And so, Allen Walker began to fade from life. He became quieter, eventually losing all the ties that still bound him to the world. Lost and broken, his pledge to Mana became worth near nothing, despite the other members of the Organization doing their best to reclaim the bright, young child that had walked their floors.

Allen – he was a lot of things in his life: cursed, exorcist, saviour, destroyer and sixteen; but if anything, he definitely wasn't a fool. He could see behind the mask Komui held behind his lenses, eyes betraying his thoughts and silently condemning him about Lenalee's fate. Miranda would berate herself over and over for the loss as she tried to lighten the burden he bore, even knowing she couldn't revert death, but in the end she was only misguiding her mind and taking the blame for something that was only his to control.

Learning upon his return that it was intended for him to take a position of General due to his Innocence's extremely high synchronization ratio passed through the air above his head, but the fact that the Musician's presence in his mind meant he was to be watched at all times did not and only confirmed his unspoken doubts.

Upon his return, he learnt that it was intended for him to take a position as General, due to his Innocence's extremely high synchronization ratio. That only passed over his head, only allowing himself to keep note that the Fourteenth's presence within his mind undeniably confirmed his unspoken doubts. _He_ had been the one who was too slow in reversing the Ark's destruction, far too hesitant to use the Musician's power, and it had been he who was solely responsible for the loss of their best exorcists.

But Levrrier had taken it further.

The man's insistence that Allen had to be watched at all hours and the constant reminders of the events in the Ark around him meant that he no longer had solace in his thoughts, let alone within his sleep and within his dreams. Nobody seemed to notice any change but Jerry, though sometimes they would look slightly concerned over the occasional stilted sentence, and he could only remind himself that he was a weapon – a human weapon, to be used and commanded in the war against the Millennium Earl.

He'd looked for freedom in the Room of the Musician, it and its surroundings probably the only places that would always accept him no matter what he did or would have done. In the Ark, it was a simple matter to bar all the exits when he wanted some time alone for himself. Levrrier would berate him whenever he showed himself again for disrupting such a crucial means of access even though _he_ had been the one to give them _his_ Ark out of charity, and soon Allen found himself locking the doors permanently so he could stay inside forever.

After all, the Ark was enough.

Perhaps when the time came, that was why he hadn't cared when the Musician approached him and simply _asked_ if he had anything against the memories that were washing past him. Perhaps his thoughts and processes had already been dulled and numbed as the stigmata coursed across his forehead and the new power flowed over him and darkened his skin in the process. _Perhaps..._

His eyes opened slowly, the piercing, golden eyes that were those of a Noah.

_But not qu_ite_, _ha_tch_ling_._

End of Prologue.


	2. To wake from slumber ::

**Chapter revised 2010-12-22.**

The Fourteenth's random italics in his speech were nicked from _Darkest Before Dawn_ by _Mad Half Hour_. Check it out, it's insane...literally. :)

* * *

_Time._

_The Ark was never one to abide by any fixed rule set; always defying what was logical for a thing of such proportion._

_After all, who knew which dimensional plane it resided on anyway?_

_It could not create food from thin air, but somehow even a parasitic accommodator was able to not require sustenance for...what was it?_

_Had it really been two months of idle wandering?_

_And so, why did a hundred years pass in the other world?_

**To wake from slumber~~**

The Fourteenth wasn't the kind of mind that got bored easily.

In fact, that was exactly what was required if one was to stay low in someone else's for thirteen years, unnoticed and undetected, and especially when having to wander the Ark.

It wasn't as if there was anything _else_ particularly interesting to do.

There had been one occurrence some time ago that was out of the ordinary, in fact. Occurring only about eight or nine or ten or even eleven days after his completed transformation, there came a knock at the door that led to the Asian Branch.

A polite knock. Not Levrrier's crew's torrential barrage of spells made of what _felt_ like the Noah and Akuma's own Dark Matter, but a polite, 'oh I don't really mind if you ignore me I just want to have a nice chat' type of knock.

The Fourteenth mentally nudged the mind of the original Allen, whose avatar-self turned around and faced the undecipherable form of his other counterpart.

"You h_ave_ a _visi_to_r._"

Allen didn't react at the too overly melodic voice, the blank and misty look in his eye staying depressingly lifeless.

"From the _A_si_an_ B_ran_ch."

Allen's eyes showed a small spark of curiosity, but it was just that – a spark. A thought fragment: _who...?_

"Let us _see_, th_en_, w_on't_ we?"

Walking to the door, he opened it towards their patient guest.

Bak Chan – for it was him – was standing there, just _looking_ at him, an odd auraic emotion engulfing him completely. He had aged at least thirty or forty years, his golden hair now an extremely faded bronze with signs of stress from long ago running through his veins.

It would have been an underestimate to say that there was a shock between the age difference of their physical appearances, with Bak looking near seventy and Allen still the same age he had been before. Bak's eyes hovered briefly across the stigmata, the Fourteenth's piercing yellow irises, the ashy skin and then widened at the sight of the black, Innocence-embedded hand sticking past his sleeve.

"Go_od_ m_orn_in_g_..."

The small part of relieved, compassionate warmth he felt emanating from Allen was certainly interesting, and he allowed the other's mind to surface again after a deep polite (mocking?) bow to the chief. Bak's surprise visibly increased tenfold as he undoubtedly watched the Noah features ebb back to the ones he knew before from the time he'd dived after Lenalee and entered the Ark, but no small amount of his concern came from seeing the now silvery blue eyes as merely oceans of lost darkness.

Lenalee. His friends.

For the first time in three months, a true smile graced his face with the sight of someone he recognized and knew, somehow avoiding the deep depression he normally fell into upon thinking about them. Bak had gone to the trouble to visit him after all, even after his fatal mistake and his stupid decision to shut himself away. There was no disgust or prejudice in the curious glances toward his Noah, only simple scientific curiosity, and Allen couldn't describe how welcome and _accepted_ he felt as a result. This feeling rose in his chest, and he found himself breaking into hysterical giggles, tears streaming down his face and clutching his sides in a one-person hug.

"Allen..." Bak began, but simply embraced him as old friends would. "You...how...and Noah...?"

The addressed gave a half-shrug, automatically leaning closer to the warmth of another before being racked by another fit of hysteria.

"How...long?" He whispered weakly after he stopped choking on the air and salt, surprised at how hard it was for himself to speak and not the Fourteenth.

"Fifty-two years, seven months and twenty-three days since we heard that you sealed off all the doors, since no one knows the date when you exactly left."

..._That long?_

The Fourteenth smiled disconcertingly in response to the flash he heard and 'looked' towards Allen's mind. _The A_rk _is unpre_dict_ab_le_. Whe_re _do you th_ink _we a_re _when we're in_side _it?_

Understanding came from Allen, the Fourteenth could feel it, but the outside conversation continued without hesitation.

"It...Nice to see you, Bak Chan." His speech was getting easier, somehow not even needing water to soothe his throat. "Where are the others?"

Bak's eyes and aura shifted strangely, as if he had just breached a taboo.

"Rikei is the only one still alive now, driven into insanity by an Akuma some time ago and Fou is looking after him so he doesn't hurt anyone else or himself any further. Both Lou Fa and Shifu were killed in the final fight between the Earl, his supporters and the Organization, Lou Fa after being sliced by a Level Three's blade in an ambush from behind when distracted from lookout duty and Shifu from the Blood Bullet whilst making an important delivery to Headquarters."

"Fight between...does that mean the Earl was killed?"

Shaking his head sadly, a broken smile showed itself. "No, none of us were powerful enough for that. Miranda Lott's Innocence was the first to become the new, more powerful Crystal type, actually, followed by a child called Timothy Hearst and another member named Ilya Novikov, who died in a kamikaze strike against the Noah of Lust, Lulubell, but bringing her down with him. Levrrier used the egg you retrieved to convert some of our members to half-Akuma via biological conversion and it took about the lives of seventeen of them to seal the Earl in a crystal that's impossible to escape. There was no choice since we were losing major forces, and making hundreds of normally non-combative troops in a mad and desperate rush was the only answer."

The Fourteenth was revolted, and it was the first time Allen's expression showed some major emotion by displaying his disgust. "Converting humans into half-Akuma...that's sick..." He drifted off, feeling his mind being overlayed, stigmata appearing once more and eyes changing colour. "Are you su_re_ you ki_lle_d off all the N_o_ah?"

Bak nodded, slightly disliking the rawer power coming from him now. But as the Exorcist's skin tone hadn't darkened, he had to deduce that the original Allen was still there and listening. "You brought down Road Camelot, Tyki Mikk, Skin Bolic and Jasdevi alongside the Ark back then, so that's four of thirteen. The remaining nine were accounted for – Lulu Bell, Cyril Camelot, Raviel Damont, Dmitri Kovosky, Allene Jormansen, Niko Farkas, Louvain Mancini, Karmine Rosaby and Lausse Makela, if those names ring a bell to your Noah." He sighed. "So many Finders were changed to increase the forces, and only a handful of people survived with one or two Exorcists among them; I was lucky since I only lost half my left arm."

Indeed his sleeve was slightly off, normal-looking until just past the elbow joint. The Fourteenth had retreated back again after that, not paying much attention as they exchanged awkward pleasantries, one because he hadn't seen the other for over half a century and the other knowing that he hadn't seen him for that half-century, but having only a small span of time pass for himself.

But since that, nothing much had happened.

Bak's visit, however, had done much to lighten Allen's spirits and somewhat bring him back to the world and restore the way he used to be. Fou had come to tell them one or two or three weeks later (who knew?) of his death and they just handed her the over-extravagant bunch of flowers they had specially picked and she delivered – it _would_ have been odd if Allen Walker, looking no older than he did since the war and missing for eons, appeared from the barrier that was supposed to not be in use anymore and attended the funeral in person.

Timcanpy _had_ left with her to record the ceremony, being easier to hide. But not even halfway through viewing it, he had broken down and could not watch any more.

What was the need to anyway, when Bak had been his last and only fixed tie to the outside world left?

As much as the Fourteenth didn't care about what the two of them did with the rest of their lives, Allen's grieving now only seemed to be out of pure habit and not genuine. Knowing there was nothing left for them within the Ark, especially considering how slow time was passing by, he gave his counterpart nearly a week (or perhaps it was past one?) to recover and gather his senses, before going back to the outside world where he could find himself, or Allen, a new crowd (welcoming or not) and something to do with his life.

He found it was much harder to make a gate than it had used to be, but he achieved it with the piano nonetheless, first playing the tune through to remove all the unnecessary gates that were present in the world before forming one at the edge of the forest the Exorcist Headquarters had been based upon.

Once he stepped through the door, Crown Clown activated to shield his face, he was greeted with the sight of an extremely old, wise-looking man with white hair and wearing the most peculiar set of robes.

And then came the pain of the soul fragment chained to him.

_It lo_ok_s like the p_lac_e is in n_eed _of an _Ex_or_cis_t, li_tt_le on_e_._

_We_l_co_me _to your n_ew _li_fe_._

End of Chapter One.


	3. New places, new worlds ::

**Chapter revised 2010-12-22.**

* * *

_You say you can revive the dead, hmm?_

_You say you can revive the dead, who are supposed to be those whom have their souls permanently separated from their bodies, do you?_

_Then, may I ask, how do you propose to bring those two parts together once more, or are you simply false?_

_Hmph, I thought so._

**New worlds to find, new places to explore~~**

Albus Dumbledore was a wizened old wizard, one that had experienced quite a number of events in his life that had changed him quite a bit (to say the least) and a wizard who had been offered things others could only dream of.

However, all of those happenings could not have prepared him for what was to happen next.

He had originally been on a leisurely stroll in the Hogwarts grounds the day before the new school year was to begin, simply enjoying the fresh, crisp air or maybe having a few idle chats with the merpeople in the lake. All in all, it was nice and relaxing, a sure certainty that may not come once more in the months to come.

That was when he felt it.

A strange, _pulsing_ magical signature, originating from the Forbidden Forest a little way a ways from his position. He had never in his one hundred and thirty years of life or so even remotely detected such like it, and being the curious person that he was went to see what it could be.

As both the trees and the undergrowth passed him he barely reflected that it was near the border of _that area_, the very area sealed from a hundred year old treaty between the two borders and a place not to be entered. A few hundred metres away, he stopped.

And he stared.

Diamonds. Tens of bright, beyond white diamonds were materializing in the sky, the intricate structure gently descending to the ground with a small 'whup' and the most bizarre energy emanating from their surface.

Impulsively, he hurried forward. No, upon closer inspection, they weren't diamonds, but rather countless two-dimensional, glowing rhombuses. A number 5 was etched onto the face of one, but he was quickly distracted when the largest began to ripple.

From it, a figure stepped out. He – the proportions were male – wore a slim black jacket adorned with many decorative lines, the most striking feature belonging in the irritatingly familiar cross on his left breast. His trousers were fitted tightly, wearing another layer of fabric above to perhaps hide his lower movements and his boots were dark with a large zipper affixed to the front of each.

Possibly the most obvious aspect of his clothing lay within the great white cape he had on, stretched so he also wore an extension of it as a sleeve on his right arm. It was also attached to the unnerving silver mask that his hid eyes, and Dumbledore couldn't scatter the irritating feeling as if he was _supposed_ to recognize who the person was, but didn't.

Without warning, the stranger became wracked with pain and began nearly clawing himself – his left hand was actually a great dark claw – to try to stop it. Occasionally Dumbledore could have sworn that the man's left eye would glow a cursed red, but since he twitched every time a fit ended before another started again it was hard to confirm.

Dumbledore had automatically drifted into a duelling stance, his wand out and at the ready. Now he relaxed his wand arm, stepping forward in an effort to help the person before him and see if he could judge his intentions at the same time, but the stranger jerked away. Their eyes began to drift before they glared at the ring on his left hand.

The ring of Marvolo Gaunt.

The other hissed.

It was an inhuman hiss, and something that better suited a parseltongue or even a snake itself. It was full of hatred and loathing and blame bl_ame_ _blame_ with undeniable proof that the ring was the source of the pain.

The stranger then seemed to try and grasp his left wrist but continuously failed, but there arrived a chance when he did succeed; unexpectedly, he pulled it and it transformed into a great sword. Dumbledore took a reflexive half-step back and prepared to cast either a _protego_ or _stupefy_ or any spell of that sort, but the other's speed and the range the sword's length possessed quickly slid through his wrist but came to an abrupt stop at the ring.

Both pairs of eyes widened.

The Headmaster, because the sword sliced straight cleanly through him with no mark at all, as if it were by a ghost, and the stranger because the ring halted its progress. It made sense to him as it was both a Hallow and a Horcrux, so the chance it would have been destroyed was minimal, but there was something in the other's movements that _told_ him it wasn't supposed to do so, not least of all the absolutely murderous look in their face.

Slowly, slowly, _painfully _slowly the chip created began to grow, one millimetre at a time. Pulses of energy and light travelled down the sword to the point of contact and he began feeling the pressure of the Horcrux rising as if he were actually removing it, something he could not do. The crack spread and branched out into an odd, intricate pattern across the Peverell crest, every minute detail somehow visible to the two of them, as far a distance as they stood.

Dark electric sparks jumped from the ring towards the sword, Voldemort's creation and soul not one to give up easily without a fight. The stranger glared, frowning, but Dumbledore felt the lighter, untainted power give a feeble last spark, the sword finally falling through the rest of his finger and transformed back into a clawed arm by the time it reached the floor. The other collapsed on the leaf litter not a moment later, right hand still clutching the wrist of the left.

However, Dumbledore hadn't been spared from this strange, new power. A sharp pain had coursed through him before dulling three seconds later, but as a result he now felt much lighter and freer, as if a great burden had been lifted. The ring finally lost its fight and he sensed the 'life' of it all gone, the soul fragment unmistakably destroyed.

He hurried to carry the surprisingly light person back to the castle, a simple, dull thanks for his help, murmuring multiple incantations with his wand to ease the journey.

Little did he know the consequences that would befit his very action.

* * *

He woke up in an unfamiliar room.

It took him a moment to register his newer surroundings, and a part of his mind told him it was longer than he would have liked. He lay inside an infirmary that both felt and seemed like the one from the Dark Religious Organization in both looks and setting, and he lazily eyed the dust motes visible through the shafts of sunlight, a waterfall cascading down the gaps of the dull curtains.

Huh. He could think of his former _home_ now without much further, ante reaction.

Either Time was helping or Bak Chan's visit had been more beneficial than he anticipated.

There was a sudden bustling sound to the left of him and he tried to turn his head to look, a movement he realized he hadn't actually done for himself for a while yet. He seemed to be the one in control of himself seeing as he could actually feel the slightly cool air dance around his fingers, and the soft yet harsh texture of the linen bed sheets...

...That stranger over there looked familiar...white hair like his own though theirs came from old age...

Oh. That was right; it was the person who had the soul chained to them. Hmm, if he concentrated now he could feel the pain that used to be there.

A few strands of hair fell into his face, and he automatically tried to reach his left hand up to brush them away.

What? Tried?

Hang on, he was holding it, wasn't he, much like the way he held the Sword of Exorcism. But why was the arm was in its normal, un-activated black form? Ooh, it twitched. Hee hee.

The hair moved away from his face and back to where it belonged. The Clown Belt of his cowl had done it for him.

Wait, he had activated it? Then why wasn't his arm...?

_H_at_ch_ling_, my m_ov_e._

The numbing feeling of the Fourteenth taking over washed through him...it wasn't as if he cared about it, anyway.

Wait, what was that? The 'mind' figure of the Fourteenth looked like he was in pain...sweet, sickly, dripping pain...just like himself before, wasn't it? Dripping pain...like deep, rich, cherry blood...such a pretty pretty pool it could form...

Back up a bit. Allen halted his brain for a moment before realizing where he was with a jerk, and shook his head to get his delirious thoughts away.

_You're hurt, _he said, taking control. _Rest; I'll help take care of this._

A brief flash of golden light alerted the old man to the Innocence's re-connecting to the stump, and Allen swept both hands to the side, allowing his upper body to rise.

"I see you are awake."

He nodded. "Thank you for helping me out...back then."

"It was no trouble."

Allen turned away, mask still covering his face and fell into a familiar, comforting silence. The other person broke it.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and you are?"

"Um...Allen Walker...sir."

"Then…Mr. Walker, I would humbly wish to thank you in return for what you did in the Forbidden Forest."

Startled, event having lapsed his memory (or perhaps he hadn't registered it?), Allen inadvertently ended up glancing at Dumbledore's hand again. He jolted.

It was pitch black.

Even though his own was pitch black, Dumbledore did not have a good enough reason as he did, with his Innocence. But it wasn't just that, it was that he felt strange simply looking at it, like his stomach was twisting in knots.

_Your e_ye_s. _A hiss of pain. _Draw b_ack _so that you are in the mind and _vi_ew from a d_is_tance to s_ee _unfo_cu_ss_ed_..._

He did so, and saw the sickly aura that floated around it, shifting through all the varying shades of purple and black.

It looked like the Dark Matter that surrounded the soul of an Akuma.

_Cursed..._

Apparently he had voiced his thoughts out loud, as Dumbledore had seemed to hear him.

"Yes. But the ring itself was holding an even more powerful curse so that is exactly why I'm thanking you for helping me remove it."

No. No...how could this headmaster live with such a thing? A person deserved to die old and peacefully, naturally, not by some kind of curse.

A cynical thought-flash: _Hy_po_cr_it_e_.

But he only carried Mana's curse because he _had_ to participate in the war...had to _have_...

_But y_ou _d_id_n't, did y_ou_?_

He was _born_ with the Innocence, and that was why he was immune to the blood of Akuma, didn't that mean it was his duty...?

_...Innocence..._

...Did that mean he could cure him, if it were the same Dark Matter?

It must have been surprising when he suddenly reached out to grab the old man's hand, placing it in his left. He closed his eyes and imagined the power coursing from his fingertips, feeling the rushing flow of warmth fly past. He could feel it working, now that he was withdrawn into himself far enough that he was on line with his well of Innocence, vaguely noting that Crown Clown's mask shifted more comfortably into the grooves of his face.

He opened his eyes to see his Innocence's glowing green aura move into the hand, battling away the darker one. Without conscious thought his Clown Belt extended from its spiked, shortened version of the pre-critical to a tight, almost choking bind around his chest, small tendrils branching off to the side and wrapping themselves over his palm to aid the purifying process.

_Stop!_

His pain receptors began to spark furiously, and now that he was in his mind as a fixed avatar it increased tenfold. The pain...where was it coming from?

_You...us_ing_...too much _pow_er!_

What?

_Stop..._

The shock was enough to break the connection, as he jerked upwards and realized exactly how weak he was.

If things couldn't get worse, they certainly did.

His eye activated.

Akuma, thirty feet away – just outside the doors he was close to.

_But he was _so _tired..._

The last thing Allen Walker remembered was the sensation of drifting away, the Fourteenth's mind surfacing once more.

Why were they in this world?

They shouldn't…

_What cou_ld _have brou_ght _me _su_ch p_ai_n?_

End of Chapter Two.


	4. Beginning of the doomspells ::

**Chapter revised 2010-12-22.**

Some parts of this chapter (c) J. K. Rowling, though I would rather much not paraphrase from the book. This chapter's title refers to the original title of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, the Doomspell Tournament.

* * *

_Akuma, a term that meant _demon_._

_However, _akuma _were far more complex than that, specially created using the souls of fallen warriors._

_Created and turned into machines, turned despicable, their minds were completely wiped clean with nothing left but a desperate longing to return to the afterlife. That longing would soon transform into hate at the loved one who called them back, and whose body they now claimed._

_Pitiful akuma._

**Beginning of the doom-spells~~**

There was a soft buzzing from a far way away, the first thing he noted.

He was stiff and aching everywhere, the second thing.

His surroundings were the bleak, white, empty space that was the domain of his mind and where their mental images communicated, the third.

Though if he was there, then where was the Fourteenth himself?

_A_wa_ke, I se_e_._

Oh, hello to you too. _Where am I?_

A soft snort. _I'm in _con_tro_l_, n_ow_, and we are sit_ti_ng at the head ta_ble _with the _oth_er t_ea_ch_er_s at this 'Hog_war_ts'. Af_ter _I cle_ans_ed the a_ku_ma the h_ead_mast_er _wi_sh_ed for us to lo_ok _after one of his stu_dent_s as th_eir _w_orl_d is being t_ar_geted by th_em _and th_ey _do n_ot _know a w_ay _to de_fea_t them as of yet._

The buzzing became clearer as he paused to pay attention, and it revealed itself to be Dumbledore's voice.

"– _objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and –"_

A moment after he tuned out, they got up and bowed. As they sat down again the Fourteenth finished the rest of his thoughts.

_He of_fer_ed y_ou _the po_si_ti_on _of as_sist_ant-t_each_er and pa_ss_ed you off as a _gue_st._

Seeing there was no reaction, he continued.

On_ly the Ea_rl _and h_is _fam_ily _know how to cr_eat_e the a_ku_ma._

This was when he understood. Bak had informed them that all the Noah had been destroyed at the end of the final battle, and that the Earl was no longer able to escape the crystal prison he was sentenced to for eternity. Perhaps a Noah had awakened once more or maybe that they had missed one; either way there was no chance of defeating the creator unless they had an exorcist on their side.

_The he_ad_qua_rt_ers are _emp_ty._ _I d_id _an _au_ra che_ck_._

So there was now not much of a chance that any exorcists were alive after the final battle, if there were any alive in the first place. And that the Innocence may have been destroyed…

He smiled. _Thank you._

_As I ex_pec_ted, f_led_gling._

Allen Walker's sight of life had begun to return.

* * *

The teachers had originally exclaimed in slight shock and approached him after the feast ended upon the decision to allow a guest to stay at Hogwarts without consultation. Dumbledore had simply replied with the notion that their 'guest' happened to be the only person able to take on the new monsters terrorizing the wizarding community without any further trouble. Also, he was also to assume the position of teacher if one was unable to teach. Everything was quite simple.

_Allen Walker…_

That had been niggling at his mind for a long time, the name. He _knew_ who the other was, and _knew_ the origins in which he came.

It was only upon a stroke of luck that the other hadn't noticed his accidental slip-up.

_Allen Walker…_

The exorcist who had saved him one-hundred-some years ago from the exact same monster.

_Allen Walker…_

In his mind, the words seemed to be a chant. As if he subconsciously knew, as if he subconsciously _knew_ that…

…that what? That it was truly the exact same person? The exact same _mind_?

Even with magic, that such a thing would have been impossible.

But impossible it was not, as the proof had been before him.

And he had lived for more than one hundred and twenty years.

* * *

Rumours about the new assistant-teacher spread around the castle like wildfire in the three weeks that passed. Some said that he was the second person to apply for the Defence Against the Dark Arts class but even though he was rejected Dumbledore allowed him to stay, and others stated with much matter-of-fact that he was the Dark Lord's newest spy.

Obviously it didn't seem as if they were smart enough to keep their thoughts to themselves, even when the subject of those rumours passed the discussions in broad daylight.

Despite the whispers, Allen found himself more in control, his new goal returning his former spark. His mood had improved more dramatically, even though he knew was still only a ghost of his former self. Most importantly, he began to smile.

But other than that, nothing much else had happened.

The Fourteenth, however, had soon learnt of a particularly annoying poltergeist by the name of Peeves. To do with five water balloons, it was an unfortunate incident…for Peeves, anyway.

Peeves, his usual indiscrete self happened to be aimlessly juggling said water balloons at the time…and 'accidentally' dropped one on the heads of some third-years. The next one was aimed directly at Allen himself, who was reminiscing whilst walking to his room aimlessly.

Clown Belt activated before it hit him, however, its own speed and reflexes from the many fights against akuma registered in its memory.

Peeves had frozen for a moment in surprise and that was all the time the Fourteenth needed to float_fly_run across and pin him against the wall, threatening him against doing so ever again.

Later, the Ravenclaws had told the story over and over again, the Rumour Mill working once more. Allen and the Fourteenth had heard at least eight versions of it, each more dramatic than the last.

And that obviously explained why the first-year Gryffindors had skirted around him as he headed to deliver a message to Hagrid.

Oh yes it did.

* * *

The day of arrival for the other two prestigious schools of magic was filled with an excited air of utter chaos around the students as they waited eagerly for classes to finish, chatting about the Tournament with their friends.

Ron Weasley had been acting slightly too cheerful, and Harry knew exactly why. It was the fact that the cancellation of afternoon classes just happened to coincide with the double period of Potions they had during those aforementioned classes, and a day when one could avoid three hours of Potions was a good one, rare as it could be.

Professor McGonagall snapped at them to order as the various heads of houses hustled them into neat lines, once telling Patil to remove the extremely conspicuous butterfly ornament from her hair. They walked down and lined up in their years in front of the castle.

"It's nearly six," Ron commented from behind him, beginning a discussion about the various schools' methods of arrival. Harry found himself too distracted with how cold the air was and wished he had the foresight to wear more layers under his cloak when they went up to Gryffindor Tower. He looked around and could see all the teachers – Professor Sprout was in front, being the head of Hufflepuff with Professor Flitwick slightly behind her…

It was then he noticed that Assistant-Professor Walker was missing.

His trademarked white hair and strange cape was nowhere to be seen in the crowd. Harry remembered Hermione's question when they'd found his fluffy cape could change shape and size, sometimes more than twice as large as himself. And especially, the answer.

"_My cape is just a normal cape, but you see, the only power I possess is within a form of wandless transfiguration. No wands will obey me no matter how powerful or sturdy, and shifting the forms of objects is what I can do. Actually – it's probably the only thing I can do."_

She had been slightly satisfied, but nonetheless spent hours in the library searching of more information. He too was sure that there was something off about Allen ("_Walker? Oh, please don't call me that, it makes me feel older than I am." A lilting laugh._ "_Call me Allen, at least until I begin to teach."_) but didn't press the point further, knowing that Hermione would inform them if anything arose.

"…_feel older than I am…"_

He spent a few minutes wondering how old the assistant-professor was. His body and physique made him out to be about twenty, but his height never passed those of the sixth-years – in fact, they seemed to look shorter before him. In stark contrast, both he and Dumbledore shared the same silvery eyes; eyes filled with too many experiences to fully and accurately document and more than a person would experience in their lifetime.

"Aha!" Dumbledore's voice pierced through his thoughts, suddenly startling him from the conclusion that it would take further investigating to tell. "Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

The response was predictable. It was a slight chaos as the students looked eagerly in all directions, hoping to catch a glimpse of them before their friends did. A sixth-year spotted it first, yelling and pointing at something very, very big over the forest.

"It's a dragon!" A first-year shrieked, others quickly following with their own theories.

It was in fact a giant powder-blue carriage soaring through the air, pulled by a dozen winged horses. The front three rows of students jumped backward as it hurtled lower, and with a crash loud enough to startle Neville into jumping backward onto a fifth-year Slytherin's foot the horses and the house-sized carriage landed. After bouncing a few times, it came to a stop and the golden horses shook themselves out, pleased.

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down and unfurled a set of golden steps at the carriage floor before a shining, black heel emerged from the inside, big as a child's sled. The extremity of the sizes was immediately explained as the largest woman Harry had ever seen in his whole life emerged and walked towards their headmaster. Dumbledore kissed the offered hand, as tradition dictated.

"My dear Madame Maxime, welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dorr, I 'ope I find you well?" The woman – Madame Maxime – inquired, politely.

"In excellent form, I thank you."

"Has Karkaroff arrived yet?"

"He should be here any moment; would you like to wait here and greet him or step inside and warm up?"

"Warm up, I think," She answered him, noting the shivering conditions her students seemed to be in their fine silk clothes. "The 'orses, what will happen to 'zem?"

Dumbledore smiled, and only those who were close enough were able to see the slight uncertainty in his eyes.

"Currently, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher is busy with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other – er – charges, as much as he would like to help –"

"Skrewts," Ron muttered to Harry beside him, grinning.

"– so I would like to introduce you to our new Assistant-Professor who will be doing so in place of him, Allen Walker."

Harry knew he wasn't the only person surprised when Allen appeared, his means in doing so rivalling that of Beauxbatons' school with awe. Jumping from the top of the building, he landed in an elegant, almost fighter's crouch. Elegant, however, in the sense the way panthers were elegant in the moment they bunched their muscles before leaping into a sudden attack. Being much larger – _insanely_ larger – than he was, the cape billowed dramatically and floated in the air briefly before settling down as he stood up, it shrinking so as not to drag on the floor.

Allen bowed in greeting to Madame Maxime, who blinked a few times to remove the temporal stunning effect he had before offering her hand. He too kissed it briefly before straightening and scanning the crowd, eyes more piercing and observant than Harry had ever seen them.

Their eyes locked, and he gave a slight, almost approving inclination of the head.

"My steeds require – er – forceful 'andling," continued Madame Maxime awkwardly, looking as if she seriously doubted Allen's ability to be up to scratch, but he simply walked past her and towards the palominos. "Zey are very strong…"

She trailed off as Allen had reached the horses, staring the lead one directly in the eyes, as if challenging authority. The rest of them shifted nervously, but Allen's stare was fixed and unblinking. His cape rose slightly as a gust of wind passed by, and he saw the firm, commanding stance the other held. His mask – _of all things! –_ shifted almost impatiently.

Slowly, the horse inclined his head.

In response, Allen smiled the purest smile Harry had ever seen, and patted its head gently, pleased. The students from Beauxbatons seemed to be in slight shock at how easily dominance had been achieved, and barely heard the command from Madame Maxime to hurry into the stone castle.

"How big d'you reckon Durmstrang's horses are going to be?" Seamus Finnigan said abruptly, leaning around Lavender and Parvati to address Harry and Ron.

Harry answered with half a mind, watching Allen begin to lead the horses away in the opposite direction of Hogwarts castle. Passing their group, the Assistant-Professor caught how shivering cold he was and snapped his fingers. His cape _leapt_ up in response, wrapping itself around Harry.

Unexpectedly, the sheer, furnace-like warmth the cape possessed was startling. He couldn't prevent himself from thinking that maybe it were _alive_ as it tended to shift around him protectively. Some of the other students turned to look jealously, including Ron, but his expression changed when it stretched to cover Gryffindor's Golden Trio.

Hermione looked deep in thought.

Then, an odd rumble began to sound, and many of the students looked around to find the source of the noise.

"The lake!" Lee Jordan's voice exclaimed from somewhere within the crowd. "Look at the lake!"

The previously smooth surface of the lake was now bubbling furiously, and then out within the middle of it a whirlpool began to form, as if a plug had been pulled out of the lake's floor. A mast began to slowly rise out of it, and the rest of the ship soon followed. It carried a strangely skeletal look around it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, dim lights at its portholes like ghostly eyes.

A few minutes later, the distinct sound of a dropped anchor sounded and people began to disembark. As they drew closer, he saw that the reason why they all looked around the build of Crabbe and Goyle was because of the heavy cloaks they had chosen to wear.

However, something else also quickly became apparent.

They were staring – _glaring_ – at Allen, who was passing them with the herd. Most likely used to cynical stares, he was clearly not paying attention to the looks towards his hair, pentacle and uniform. Or, as Harry saw, more specifically the ornate silver cross on his uniform.

Now that he thought about it, the cross was usually hidden by the very cape that was shielding him, wasn't it?

But even while they watched him, the one who was leading the crowd of Durmstrang continued walking up the stone path.

"Dumbledore!" He cried towards the headmaster, possibly to hide the distance between them in which he covered in quick steps. "How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," he replied. Karkaroff finally made his way into the light from the front doors, and Harry saw a person who was tall and thin with short silvery-white hair and a goatee that did not hide his weak chin. He shook Dumbledore's hands heartily, giving a smile towards Hogwarts that did not reach his eyes, which seemed to hold the smallest hint of remaining malice towards the Assistant-Professor.

It was then, when his students finally caught up when Harry's mind was wrenched away from that point. Rather, Ron's excited shout.

"Harry – _it's_ _Krum!_"

W_el_l this c_er_ta_inl_y i_s_ a_n_ _in_teres_ti_ng st_ar_t, i_sn_'t it?

End of Chapter Three.


	5. Durmstrang & Dragons ::

**Chapter revised 2010-12-22.**

This chapter's title is an allusion to the game _Dungeons & Dragons_.

* * *

_The fiercest magical creature is the dragon._

_These legendary mythical creatures are not mythical in the least when it comes to the Wizarding World, and their fire-breathing abilities are second to none._

_In fact, it was a wizard who introduced the idea of fire breathing to muggles after study of the magnificent beasts, finding that their saliva is extremely alcoholic and that they are able to use their tongue to create a spark._

_But no one would _try _to tame a dragon._

**Durmstrang & Dragons~~**

Allen watched the students file into the Great Hall before heading to their respective House tables, eager to be out of the cold, their idle chatter slowing their paces to that which would rival a decrepit snail's.

He remembered the looks the students of Durmstrang (was it?) gave him. He wasn't blind, he saw the curious glances others gave him, questioning the loathing ones. The glares were hateful and filled with a fury that even he could not fully comprehend.

But neither he nor the Fourteenth knew why, slim of a chance the Noah may have known.

As his thoughts gave him their cue, the Durmstrang students chose that moment to enter the hall. Their fierce looks lingered on him before seating themselves on the farthest table to the right with the rest of the Slytherins.

No - not glaring at him. They were staring at the silver cross of the Exorcists planted on his left breast and directly over his heart, a sign of the pledge he made when he joined. The loathing was more about the very Organization he fled, a time near one hundred years before the present.

Allen knew. It was the old, inescapable hatred of someone near to them dying at the Organization's hands, when it was in fact an akuma that they were cleansing. The burden of killing akuma in their human forms was a part of their duty and inevitable for any Exorcist or Finder to witness, and even the most unlikely character to kill a human would look as if they did so in the end.

That was the true meaning of the name, Dark Religious Organization.

He saw one of the Slytherin students glance towards his charge just entering the Hall. His friends were by the Potter's side, the bushy-haired one and the lanky redhead conversing with him in hushed tones. Crown Clown had previously unwrapped itself, now sitting as an obedient bundle of shifting cloth and fabric in Harry's arms, the mask acting as a strange head.

Even a fool would know that the so-called Golden Trio were discussing about Crown Clown from the stares they kept giving it as if it were about to bite and the looks they gave to Allen at the teachers' table, who was pointedly looking in the other direction.

It was that moment when they noticed the Slytherin looking at them, smirking, and the redhead frowned as he saw the Durmstrang students sitting with them.

_F_ool_ish _tee_n_age _ri_val_ry_, the Fourteenth commented aimlessly, busy decorating their shared mindspace. His avatar looked consideringly between a peony in his left hand and a daffodil in his right, before placing both down and choosing a poppy to go with his flower arrangement instead.

Allen had to agree. Being an Exorcist taught you things and had you face trials far, _far_ more challenging, and all the students of the Hall still kept their childhood naïveté through the sheltered, pampered lives they were granted.

_Ex_cept _t_hat _one._

Ah, yes. Neville Longbottom, his name was. And what a pitiful sight too - chubby cheeks, stuttering each and every sentence that came his way - but Allen knew. Only the veteran Finders and Exorcists had that look in their eye, a look that said they had seen far too much than what they would much rather like, but wouldn't trade those memories away regardless.

He vaguely heard Dumbledore begin to speak again, however he soon became distracted with his activated left eye.

Akuma, three hundred metres. Two hundred and eighty-six, and closing.

Allen leapt up from his seat as the students applauded, making to exit the Hall through the large double doors. Calling Crown Clown's cape back to him, where it leapt through the air before promptly wrapping itself around him snugly and shifting the mask shifting into a more comfortable position with a content hum, he took advantage of his invocated speed boost to intercept the akuma before it could reach the school.

It was a Level Three, but that wasn't what concerned him.

No, it was the fact that for an akuma to have evolved that far and almost be at the strength of a Level Four, it would have had to have decimated a lot of human lives.

And it was left unchecked.

But regardless, a Level Three would be no problem.

* * *

"Harry!" Ron's voice hissed lowly, and his friend looked up towards him over his slice of treacle tart.

"What?" He sent back in the same tone.

"It's Krum! They're leaving!"

"They're just going to go to bed, Ron. Surely even they need sleep." Hermione interjected, inviting herself into the conversation.

"But just a moment ago they were having a whispered discussion and then they began to leave with determined looks on their faces, you know? And the way they looked at Assistant-Professor Walker looked like they really hated him or knew him or something too!"

Harry knew that Ron was just spouting excuses, but his own curiosity couldn't help be peaked. Not because he was going to be all interested where the great Viktor Krum was sleeping, but about their connection with the Assistant-Professor.

The Assistant-Professor was an enigma. _Allen_ was an enigma. No matter where he was, he seemed to always be looking his way, which could be explained off as Dumbledore finally having someone watch over him.

But that didn't explain the unreadable looks Professor Moody would give to the white-haired person in turn. Moody was a renowned Auror, and for an Auror to be giving Allen looks meant that something was going on. Though, besides the rumours, Harry didn't think that Allen was a Death Eater. Somehow, he just _knew_. It was unexplainable, and he had no intent to try and explain it to anyone in the first place.

So that was why the three of them were hiding under his invisibility cloak, following the group of Durmstrangs. It was still early during the dinner, so the amount of people wandering were little, but they still had to swerve precariously as a suit of armour decided to swing its lance down and stand a little straighter the moment they turned the corner. ("It was _itchy_, can you believe it? And we almost _died!_" "Ron, shut up or we're going to get caught.")

Without a word, Krum broke away from the group, heading towards the Assistant-Professor who just happened to enter that very same corridor. Allen's gaze seemed thin, and he looked to be deep in thought.

Suddenly, his head snapped up and he saw Krum standing there, the Quidditch player's face set in a determined frown. Visibly, Allen relaxed and he reached his right arm up, running it through his hair, a blatant sign of being completely comfortable in his presence at that time. At this, Krum did not seem pleased.

"Ve need to talk...Assistant-Profvessor."

Allen's smile was blinding. "Yes...I believe we do. Would you like to come to my office for a cup of tea?"

If anything, Krum's glare intensified, but Allen didn't falter.

In the end, the Quidditch player was the one who cut through the tension with a sentence sharper than any sentence should have been.

"You killed my great-vandfather."

Ron's mouth dropped silently, wide-eyed, and Hermione covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. Harry knew that he himself must have a similar expression of shock, but Allen's gaze remained the same.

"Did I?"

"Don't play games vith me! I know vit vas you! My grandvather saw vou!"

"He did, did he?"

Krum's eyes were ablaze, his accent beginning to thicken and his English beginning to deteriorate as his agitation increased.

"He said it himvelf! 'A child vith 'air as vhite as snow, vielding a glove that looked vike a claw, vearing a bvack coat emvazoned vith a shining silver cross'! How -"

Allen raised an eyebrow as Krum lapsed into his native language when his patience wore away. Harry didn't understand a word, but from the way these new words came out of his mouth had them seem extremely, extremely rude.

"Where was this, exactly?"

It took a moment for the other to calm down enough and begin to speak normally, once more.

"Plovdiv, Bulgaria."

The Assistant-Professor blinked, and looked as if he was recalling something far in his mind with a small frown on his face.

"Are you talking about Philippopolis - Yosif Krum? If you are, I suppose it could have been considered that way. Does it bother you that much?" Krum's blazing eyes were more than enough answer, and Allen finally seemed to change tact. "Look, Krum - Viktor. He was being controlled at the time by another person, made to do things he wouldn't have dared. He killed people, Viktor. Unless you wished for him to be tortured for all eternity, dying peacefully that way was far better."

Krum looked as if he wished to speak, to deny those words, but the next words that came out of Allen's mouth stopped him in his tracks, and especially the wistful, knowing expression on the other's face.

"And that way, he could be with that loved one of his in heaven together. Forever, peacefully, and for all eternity."

And the Assistant-Professor broke out in long-suppressed heart wrenching tears.

* * *

Three weeks had passed since the other schools' arrival.

Three weeks.

And in those three weeks, Allen watched with a hidden humour as Harry and his friends lived their very own drama.

They had first fallen apart when Harry's name came out of the Goblet. That redhead and he had to have been in an argument - it was so obvious with the way they were ignoring each other as if the other didn't exist.

And then, Allen smirked as he looked at the Daily Prophet in his hands, the articles began to come. One paragraph and it was obvious this 'Rita Skeeter' was the biggest, most irritating bug that ever existed, with her flowery words and obvious despite for his charge.

...He really hated flowery words. And that might've been the only good thing about his Master - he never sugar-coated anything, and made him work hard to get to where he was.

He felt a pang in his heart. He now thought of them less than before, but every time he did his guilt came forth again, growing stronger and stronger as he gained life. It was his fault, after all, that all his friends perished in the Ark. It was his fault that he left those in the Organization even when they extended caring gestures towards him, giving him his space. It was his fault he misread those actions and began to blame them, running away from his problems and -

_Qui_et d_own_, h_atch_ling.

-then the Fourteenth helped him. The Fourteenth, who was there for him and let him cry; he was the one who told him and showed him the realization that he was to blame.

Even now, the Fourteenth was there to aid him. He taught him things, and took over when he couldn't take it anymore. He comforted him.

And Allen trusted him.

The last time he became this attached was to Mana, and he knew. He knew the Fourteenth inexplicably _felt _like his old guardian, but he didn't care how or what it was.

The Noah part of him helped him.

And for that, he was grateful.

But he hadn't spent the last three weeks lazing about either - he was training. Training, because the Fourteenth told him to. Training, because he was possibly the only Exorcist left and expected to go one-on-one with the one creating all the akuma and all their akuma all at once.

Training, because he was weak.

But he would be weak no more. No, Allen Walker would be strong, and his will and resolution would be enough to drive a Level Two to its metaphorical knees.

He would be strong, he would live, and he would once again be the Allen Walker everyone once knew.

Not that there was anyone to show.

* * *

"Clever move - _pity it didn't work!_" Ludo Bagman's voice cried suddenly, piercing his mind back to awareness as both he and the Fourteenth were engaged in a heated mental discussion. But that wasn't what caught his attention - it was the blue-gray overprotective female dragon facing Diggory.

It was the First Task, where he was granted the position of interfering when the schools' respective champions were in mortal danger, and to him it was not looking good. But even though he was only ordered to get in the way of the threat and each respective school's champion so that experienced wizards could come in, he felt something was seriously, seriously wrong.

Having worked in a circus with a troupe of animals partly under his command, he knew the warning signs of revolt. Overly slitted pupils, flared nostrils and a tense position that threatened to do something very _very_ bad.

Diggory neared the egg. And then he grabbed it, victorious.

The crowd cheered.

The dragon's temper left with it.

Oh that Swedish Short-Snout wasn't going to play anymore.

"Get d_own_!" Allen called suddenly, not even aware that he had called out loud before realizing he was in their mindscape. Not paying attention to the newly-decorated room, he flew forward to take control, but was knocked back.

The Fourteenth had snapped.

Allen watched as his body fought against the restraints holding it up as the Fourteenth strove to reach the dragon before anything too disastrous happened. The Fourteenth knew there were Wizarding healers, but didn't know the extent of damage they could heal all at once. The exorcist felt the thought-flash the Fourteenth had; _the stupid wizards near him thought he couldn't handle a full dragon! They don't know what they're dealing with! He'll show them -_

He knew the crowd was staring at him and the rest of the judging panel, where he had once been standing beside Dumbledore, and that it was only a matter of time before Diggory himself also succumbed to the temptation and lowered his guard to stare alongside them.

The Fourteenth's end of the mental link shook with an emotion that would only be justified in words as a profanity, having not realized that fact.

And true to Allen's prediction, Diggory looked.

Taking advantage of the lapse of concentration, the dragon opened her mouth, sparking her fire before spitting a huge mushroom-shaped flame towards her target.

Everyone stared.

That moment of shocked surprise was enough for the Fourteenth. He leaped the barrier between them, Crown Clown's cape extended to widths it had never been before, and hoped - prayed - that he got there in time.

No one would know until the end.

H_ave_ I w_ander_ed in_to_ a _ne_st of f_ools_?

End of Chapter Four.


	6. The First, the Aftermath ::

**Chapter revised 2010-12-22.**

No specific character is saying the introductory italics, so don't think too hard about it.

* * *

_Y'see, there're plenty of differing opinions about us Exorcists, of course._

_Some're think'in we're the saviours of the entire world, killin' 'em _akuma _a'fore they can cause any more of 'at damage to the world, yeah?_

_Most of 'em, though, and these're the ones who've most likely had someone close to 'em lost, they view us as murder'rs, see'in as them're generally in their human forms when they're cle'nsed._

_But hey, this is what being in the Dark 'ligious Organization's really about, 'ent it? Th's is what we accepted when we pledged our lives towards destroyin' the Millennium Earl an' the_akuma_, isn't it?_

_In the end it doesn' matter if we're viewed as monsters by th' public, does it? So long as our work helps improve the lives o' oth'rs, does it matter if we have t' suffer?_

_O' course not, an' 'at's what really bein' an Exorcist is about, y'know._

**The First; the Aftermath~~**

Everything quickly became a blur for Harry as he gripped the handle of his Firebolt closer to him, and the cheers and praises around him quickly became drowned out in his slowly-ebbing adrenaline.

Quickly directed towards the second tent he saw as he exited the arena which was presumably the very first-aid tent he was ordered to, he was instantly dragged inside by a scowling Madam Pomfrey. As she examined his shoulder, the wound not nearly as bad as it felt, he saw the shadow of Cedric through the canvas that divided the tent into separate cubicles. However, Cedric didn't seem to be so badly injured seeing as he was at least sitting up, but what caught his attention was the unmistakable figure of Assistant-Professor Walker in the corner of the tent.

Allen wasn't looking at him, though. His brows seemed furrowed and his face looked far harsher than usual; even his stance was unusually feral. The thick, white cape he insisted on wearing was now wrapped into a strange structure; form fitting around his torso and revealing abnormally thin arms. It stretched to the ground in the way that Harry could only describe as an upside-down funnel, the ends woven in infinitely complex, cobweb-like patterns, the mask nestled at the base of the Assistant-Professor's neck.

As Harry soon felt a stinging on his injured shoulder, he turned to see Madam Pomfrey going over the cut with some strange purple liquid, before sensing a blur in the corner of his eye. Spinning around and ignoring the unsettling smoke coming from the goo that was supposed to clean the wound, he was quick to find the source of the movement.

Staring at him but not really looking at him, Allen was quick to turn around again as their eyes met and leave the tent in the very next moment.

Quickly getting to his feet, ignoring the commands that ordered him to sit, Harry made his way to the mouth of the tent to see what was going on outside and where the other had gone to, but two people quickly appeared in his vision. Soon, he found himself engaged in conversation with Hermione and an extremely sorry Ron.

And all thoughts of those slitted, golden eyes were far from his mind.

* * *

Clutching the letter to Sirius in his hands, he listened with only half an ear as Ron gave him an extensive play-by-play of events that had occurred during the First Task. He spoke of Krum's tactical spellcasting, Fleur's apparent charming and also the thrilling manoeuvres Harry himself preformed upon his broom.

"- And you should have _seen_ him, Harry! Cedric was just _that close_ to the dragon; this _very big, fire breathing_ dragon - nowhere as bad as your Hungarian Horntail, though; and then the Assistant-Professor - the _Assistant-Professor_ – just gets up and _manages to jump over the barrier_ even though he was held down! And now he just _leaps_ _directly toward_ this _giant, massive, temperamental flamethrower_ - mind you, his cape is at least _twice as large_ as we've ever seen it; bloody hell, maybe even _three_times - and then -"

"_Ahem._" A nasally woman's voice interjected with a distinctly annoyed tone, leaving the red-head frozen in the middle of his extravagant hand gesture. The two of them turned to see a fairly plump woman in a nearby painting, her mousy brown hair done up in seemingly infinite curls.

Ron simply stared at her with a blank expression on his face, looking quite ridiculous with his hands still half-raised. "What do you want?" He asked bluntly, obviously displeased that his epic recount had been interrupted.

She scrunched her nose up in disdain and arranged herself so her countless petticoats were in what may have been a slightly more comfortable position. Their odd yellowish tones were a strange contrast with the irritable look on her face, kind of like a daffodil with a skin-toned butterfly. "I shall have you address me as Countess Fiorella, young man! Where on _Earth_ did you learn your manners, you insolent child; this is the very second time you have woken me from my slumber -"

At this, Harry took his own opportunity to interrupt. "Second? What do you mean by second?"

"_Countess Fiorella!_ Address me by name, disrespecting -"

Gritting his teeth as the woman's voice was enough to want to _Silencio_ her, his attention was quickly caught by a shuffling behind him.

"Harry!"

The subject of the cry turned around, completely ignoring the painting's infuriated huffs and saw Hermione run down the stairs behind him clutching the Golden Egg precariously in her hands. Stopping only a few steps before him, he noticed that her face was flushed and it was likely that she had run all the way down from Gryffindor Tower.

She thrust the Egg towards him. "You left this in the Common Room," she panted between gasps. "I didn't want it to be left unprotected or anything, so I came to give it to you."

Beside him, Ron simply stared at the golden object. "Couldn't you have just gone up to our dormitory and placed it on his bed, then?"

If Hermione hadn't been red from embarrassment before she was now, having overlooked something so dreadfully simple. She began to stutter feeble excuses, but was quickly interrupted.

"Do not ignore a woman whilst she is _talking!_"

Ron spun around with his mouth already half-open in preparation of protest, but a voice beat him to it.

"Oh, do stuff a sock in it, dear; some of us are actually trying to sleep, you know?"

It was quite a smooth tenor, holding a strong but melodic underlay of Old English speech. The voice was enough to make him think of aristocrats in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, teacups and all.

(At this point, Harry started to doubt his knowledge of the Victorian stereotype, the only bits he knew from fragmented glances at the television. He happened to be dusting the house when his Aunt Petunia was watching those terribly inaccurate shows, so he really had no clue.)

Looking up toward the source of the speaker, he connected the voice to a rather disgruntled painting. Personally, he was pleased that the picture somehow at least fit into the stereotype he knew, their deep blue tailcoat, top hat, and light breeches complimenting in a subtle way, coupled with a cane and an impressively flicked moustache the same darker brown as his hair.

Fiorella also seemed to have spotted him, her face distorting into a strange, irritated pout. "Sir Mekai, these _brats_ were interrupting my own slumber! You see; the red-headed one had already done so not even fifteen minutes ago and soon I fear my beauty sleep shall no longer exist!"

The addressed painting simply raised a sceptical eyebrow, peering down at Ron through his monocle. "Not to be awfully disrespectful, but I think you may have been blind, milady. This one is obviously not the one from before."

"_Nonsence!_ You surely cannot believe that! Him talking at the top of his lungs without taking breathe, all about dragons, those ungraceful beasts! He is the same, I tell you, the same!" She paused before adding an afterthought. "At least that _lovely_ gentleman beside him was kind enough, though his choice of white hair was quite odd..."

Placing the hat back on his head and shifting the position in which he held his cane, Mekai obviously possessed a patience that one could easily envy. "I can and I will. Can you not see that this one is younger, his hair redder and his freckles far more defined? Milady, I suggest you do what that wonderful white-haired gentleman asked of you and simply take your rest, I shall deal with these three here."

Some small, disgruntled muttering later and the curtains to the bed in her painting had been pulled closed as Fiorella attempted to get the sleep she wanted. Harry looked to Mekai, about to thank him for shutting her up, when he recalled something strange about the conversation.

"Thanks for your help back then, but...um, Sir Mekai?" He began tentatively, unsure how to phrase his question, slightly affected by his sheer politeness and almost poetic tone of speech.

In response, the painting's expression seemed to soften. "Now, now, there's no need to be so formal with me, youngster; Phys shall do."

"Right." Harry replied, still sounding awkward to his own ears. "Phys, sir, do you remember what direction the red-head from before went in?"

"It would be that way," Phys replied, his eyes crinkling as he waved an arm to the left of the corridor.

Harry gave a slight bow, still uncertain how to act around someone who seemed so noble and so refined. He could only manage out a simple 'thank you' before hurrying down the corridor again and ending up outside on the grounds. The sounds of running footsteps which stopped directly behind him signified the belated arrival of his two best friends, and his momentary twinge of guilt at leaving them behind was quickly masked by the anticipation he felt as he attempted to piece the puzzle that was the Assistant-Professor together. He didn't know why, but Allen intrigued him, and he couldn't stop himself from wanting to know more.

"I have a feeling," Harry began out loud to try and organize his thoughts, also speaking for Ron and Hermione's benefit. "Everything that's happened out of the ordinary has to do with the Assistant-Professor – with Allen."

Hermione glanced at him. "But that's impossible; I mean, think about the Tri-Wizard Tournament! That's got nothing to do with him."

"Maybe, maybe not." Slowing down a fraction and looking at the both of them, his eyes were filled with thought. The person that Fiorella talked about had to have been either Charlie or one of the twins alone, so he didn't know who it was that was with Allen in the corridor –

"She was talking about Charlie!" Ron blurted, seemingly unable to keep it in him any longer. "She, uh...I mean Charlie told me that he was going to find out how the Assistant-Professor did that when I went to see him after the task about, uh..." He flushed, glancing slightly towards Hermione.

Harry didn't really notice his state as he continued his earlier track of thought. "I can't tell you why I'm thinking this way either, the best I can do is describe it as a feeling in my gut, but right now I have to visit Charlie and ask him what he thinks of things."

"What, you can't ask us?" Ron, his indignant tone obvious in his words.

In response Harry just shrugged. "I'm guess I'm just looking for a new point of view."

* * *

Allen sat on the stool, the white piano fixed and unmoving before him. He stared blankly at the smooth, curving lines like waves drifting across calm water, his eyes following the thin lines of the design on the impossible marble surface.

His hands were rested on the eerily inverted keys, but they weren't truly _his_. Only in the Arc, only in the Room of the Musician were the two of them able to corporally exist at the same time. As he glanced toward his true body the sight of the dark skin was unusual to look at, but not as much as having to see the now-white scar and pentacle and the piercing-golden eyes that were sharp and angled in such a way that they reminded him of Kanda.

Kanda. The exorcists...his comrades...they were dead, weren't they?

But if they were dead, how was he still here?

Picking himself up off the lounge-like structure that was not, he caught sight of himself in one of the many mirror-like reflective surfaces, looking identical to the avatar-self in his mind. As he eyed his dusty brown-blonde hair, white-tipped at the ends, his pitch-black left hand and the matte leather-like material of his own Exorcist uniform, he couldn't help but contemplate that it may have been fate or something of the sort that had kept him alive for all this time.

"It w_asn_'t fa_te_," the Musician almost sung, still playing the impossibly melodic song of the Ark. Allen turned to look at him, and the Fourteenth continued. "We were k_ept_ al_iv_e by the A_rk_, h_atch_ling."

Allen just watched the purely Noah version of himself play without making any sign to acknowledge hearing the words, simply admiring the pure and rich music emanating from the piano that possessed no strings. However, the Fourteenth's words had sparked a small thought in him, and his next words were almost a whisper. "Then...how does the Ark survive, then?"

It was now when the piano music stopped, the last note hanging in the air as the Fourteenth paused and his fingers rested idly on the keys in preparation of the very next note. His eyes turned to survey Allen in a strangely subdued manner before flicking to his face.

"The ex_iste_nce of the A_rk_..." A pause, before a small and quick tune was played on the keys, a smooth continuation of the silent playing of the song before. The Fourteenth stood up. "Do y_ou_ re_ally_ _wi_sh to s_ee_? A_re_ you p_re_par_ed_, fle_dg_ling?"

Something in the Fourteenth's words made him freeze and rethink his decision. What could the Ark have hidden that was enough to ask him to confirm it again?

Allen bowed his head. "Yes. I am."

A strange flash of emotion flashed across the Fourteenth's face, but when he stood aside and simply chose a final note, Allen couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it had been his imagination. He was quickly distracted, however, as strings of diamonds materialized with the sole goal to form a single, pearlescent rhombus.

The Fourteenth had played a door.

Without hesitation, he walked through the silver and black archway and Allen simply followed, unsure what was to happen next. As with all the Gateways in and out of the Ark, it was impossible to tell what was behind the sheen of white until the person found themselves behind it. Even so, Allen prepared himself for the strangely disconcerting feeling of walking through a film of water that a person could never get used to, stepping with false confidence into the unknown.

He was surprised when his foot touched a solid, white rectangle, strikingly bright against the rest of the pitch black abyss. As he looked ahead he noticed that there were possibly hundreds of them spiralling down and creating a stairway, but when both of his feet finally left the first step a strange breeze brushed past and he nearly lost his balance if not for the Fourteenth's hold.

"Do not _mis_step, _hatch_ling, as the d_en_ize_n_s of _the_ d_ark_ pr_ey_ on a_ll_ that _near_."

Allen nodded once to show that he heard the statement, and he looked behind him to see the Gateway closing and sealing itself up, the staircase now looking as if it began from a point in empty space. "Where are we going?"

A small, sideways glance. "To the _heart_."

* * *

The she-dragon growled, slamming her chest for the nine-clawed time into the lines-that-wouldn't-let-her-pass. She glared at the light-spitting two-legged on the other side and hissed as they took her spark away from her, rendering her unable to show them the power of the flame.

The two-legs called something in their strange speech and at once she felt the jolting power of two-clawed lights striking her hide. Unable to do anything more than roar in outrage as she felt herself fall into a crouch, the muscles in her legs paralysed as if she had eaten the Red Prey-that-was-not.

She snarled as one of the two-legged came close to her, and felt a twinge of satisfaction as they backed away, fearful of her. Never would she bow down to a two-leg that hadn't received her respect. As a female egg-borne, however, the respect she gave was rare, and in her life she had only given it once.

Closing her eyes in a falsely relaxed state, she didn't know why it was a two-legged that had been the one to earn it. That two-legged was strange, and she had thought him foolish when he leapt before her with his white-wing purposefully blowing his scent in challenge of both her territory and the opportunity to be her mate.

Other two-legs had appeared to take the egg-thief from her, the thief having survived her fire because the white-wing detached from the strange two-legged, shielding the thief from his death just as the two-legged dove beneath the wing at the same time. She didn't care that her initial target had lived, though, because the she-dragon herself had been confronted and she never backed away from a fight.

When the strange two-legged tried to stand up, the white-wing back over his shoulder, she noticed that his left dead-leg was a lethal black claw to be envied, curving wickedly and sharp enough to cut through air. His golden eyes stared at her through a shield of silver scales, and when he stood up again she finally noticed what was so unusual in his scent.

He smelt of _time_, of age, of an era that had been long before the one the she-dragon herself.

But she didn't care. He was still far smaller than her, and small things could easily be crushed.

A small part of her told her it was foolish to have sparked her flame towards him, but at the time she didn't care. The two-legs had forced her to do so much already that she never wanted to do, and by killing the strange two-legged she would finally show them her true wrath.

The small part of her was right, however, and she soon found him at her eye-level, raised by the strange webbing the white-wing grew to become. As she fought against the chain at her neck, he had simply placed his other dead-leg against his claw and pulled it to form a giant, bladed plate.

His scent increased, but this time in power. It was as if there was another dragon inside the power of _time_, binding her and forcing her to submit as it flew around her in swirls – as powerful as the Dragons of Old.

She was simply no match.

And she had been scared. And all she could have done was bow her head and allow the two-legged ones to take her away.

Giving a snort and letting free her last reserves of flame, she scoffed. Dragons were not to surrender to the two-legs that thought they could rule. She had been raised that way, and that was the way of the dragon.

Sounds of scuffling made her crack an eye open, and the she-dragon couldn't help but feel pleased as one of the two-legs seemed to have been standing far too close to the lines-that-wouldn't-let-her-pass, and his retarded scales had caught on fire. She realized now her mistakes, and she would prevent them if they ever repeated themselves in the future.

And the Swedish-Short Snout was content.

* * *

"No..."

It had taken what seemed like eons of time to arrive at their final destination, and Allen simply stood in shock. The stairway had been difficult to traverse because there was nothing to hold onto, and each step was separated by a five-inch long gap. As he followed, he had gripped the arm of the Fourteenth's tailcoat to provide the balance he needed along the never-ending path until they reached a tall door.

Where he was now was the other side, in the large, pristine, white and perfectly cubed room.

"Impossible..." Allen whispered, collapsing to the ground, staring at what he once recognized before him.

It was carnage. It wasn't as if seeing lifeless bodies was unfamiliar to him due to his past as an Exorcist, because that wasn't why he felt in such utter despair.

He knew all the people in the room.

Kanda. Lenalee. Krory.

Tyki. Jasdevi. Road. Skinn.

Lavi. Chaoji. Even Cross, with Maria lifeless by his side.

"...they – It can't be..."

The Fourteenth turned back to look at him, his head slightly tilted in a strange and musing way. Yes – he _had_ asked him if he was ready to witness something, and he had foolishly replied that he was.

"Th_ey_ are _not_ y_et_ dead, h_atch_ling," the Fourteenth began unexpectedly, and Allen looked up, not bothering to hide the tears in his eyes because the Fourteenth already _knew_. "Th_ey_ are _sim_p_ly_ sus_pend_ed in _real_ity un_til_ they de_cay_."

Allen stared through him as he tried to focus but couldn't as he was unable to even find the words to speak. "...what...?"

"H_ow_ do you _thi_nk the _Ark_ ex_ist_s, _then_?" Allen's only reaction in response was to stay numb, but the Fourteenth didn't stop. "Th_ose_ whom f_all_ u_pon_ the _Ark_ _lie_ un_til_ the_ir ener_gies _be_co_me _con_sumed_, and _us_ed as a fu_el_. _This_," he gestured, "is t_he_ _Room_ of the _Pe_ri_she_d."

Still refusing to look closely at the bodies, his gaze drifted toward the Fourteenth again, but he found the Musician against the wall and fingering the raised designs in a weirdly curious way. Abruptly, he spoke as he glanced in Allen's direction again, his tone the same as that of an afterthought.

"H_ow_, did _you_ th_ink_ that _both_ you and _I_ _sur_vived w_ith_out _need_ing a_ny_ fo_rm_ of nu_tri_tion, _all_ this t_ime_?"

And then for a split second, all that Allen could see in the world were white outlines upon black as his heart skipped and lodged itself in his throat. And as that flash was gone it returned as suddenly as if had left and he pitched forward onto his hands violently whilst he tried to squash his overwhelming urges to vomit over and over again.

No. _No._ It was impossible. The Fourteenth's word about the only reason he was still alive was a lie; they _must_ have been a lie. He wasn't a parasite that lived off other people – people that he _knew_; he would have never done that to his friends.

The Fourteenth easily picked up his trail of thought. "_Fri_ends, _fledg_lin_g_? _S_o the N_oah_ _we_re y_our_ _fr_iends, w_ere t_hey?"

What...? No, he never said that – he _never..._

Allen nearly jumped as he felt the Fourteenth's hand against his face, drawing him to his feet and cupping it so that his head was facing in his direction. He was stunned as he stared at what was essentially _himself_, and in his moment of distraction he was startled again as the Fourteenth spoke again. "S_o_ you re_voke_ _wha_t yo_u_ _ha_ve ju_st_ _spo_ken, but _did_ it _oc_cur to _you_ th_at_ y_ou_ have _de_tac_hed_ yo_ur_self _from _your _for_mer _Ex_orc_ist com_ra_des_ _al_so?"

Impossible. No, the Fourteenth was just twisting his words..._twisting his words..._

"A _No_ah n_eeds_ no _frien_ds," he completed, eerie golden eyes from his Not-face lingering on his as the darker one turned away.

"_As_ the n_ew_ _Mu_sic_ian_, all that n_ear_ _you_ wi_ll_ _be_come a _vict_im _of_ your _pres_en_ce_. _Mere_ly, _it_ is _fa_ted to _be_ so."

Like that, they stood for a few moments once again, this time with Allen in shocked contemplation and the Fourteenth with a darker, more sinister sense of _truth_. If it was destined for a Noah to have no friends, then what would result as to the meaning of his existence? What was there left for him to live for, if he was unable to feel companionship once more? Would he end up remaining friendless for forever, designed to never be accompanied?

Did that mean that his whole life, he had been cursing both himself and his companions?

No...That was impossible. Improbable.

It was only recently when he had accepted, it was only recently when he had resigned himself to the fate of a Noah. How long ago was it? Recently was...it was a little over four months. Or was it five? Yes, that seemed about right. _Four and a half months..._

His mind blanked and shut down as the epiphany struck him. No, it hadn't been five months; it had been over a hundred years of time. A hundred years in what was the real world and only two months whilst he was still inside of the Ark, leeching his energies off whom had once been his comrades and closest friends.

_How could so much time have passed in yet so little?_

"Th_ere_ is _a_ _ru_mo_ur_," spoke the Fourteenth, and Allen jumped. Of course- though they were separate, it was really he who was the manifested avatar, their minds still inexplicably linked. Grimly, he couldn't help but wonder yet curse the amount of energy that had to have been necessary for his materialization. "A _ser_ies _of_ w_hisp_ers _bui_lt fr_om_ _thou_san_ds_ of _life_tim_es_, _fou_nd in _the_ Mu_si_c_ian_'s _Ban_k of _Mem_or_ies,_ tel_ling_ _of_ a _ta_le. A ta_le_ _tha_t th_e_ _Ar_k li_ves_, _ali_ve o_nly_ to s_erv_e _th_e de_epe_st w_is_hes of t_h_e o_ne _wh_o t_akes c_omm_and. _On_ly d_oin_g any_thin_g a_nd_ e_verythin_g th_at it is_ capa_ble of _so _lon_g as the _Play_er _ma_y _be_come _cont_ent; caught in a _striv_ing s_earc_h to e_volve_ as _liv_ing thi_ngs _do_ thou_gh it is _phy_sical_ly_ _una_ble. _Now_ you _ar_e _tha_t N_oah,_ the A_rk_ is _serv_ing y_ou_."

His deepest wishes...it had to have been from when he first became a Noah, the first moment he had locked himself away, far too ashamed to face the glances and the whispers being the only survivor caused. It hurt to think back and how far gone he seemed to have been though the pain was nothing compared to what it was – what it had been. What had he wanted...

Allen stumbled back, falling against the wall. A small part of his mind noticed that the smooth yet slightly raised surface against his fingertips reminded him of the Chinese ceramics he would eat from during the time he attempted to reassemble his Innocence, but the rest of it was focused, _honed_ into one thing.

He had wanted to escape the reality.

He had wanted to leave his old life behind.

He had wanted to _never, ever have to face anyone he had known _ever _again._

Dimly, he registered the fact that he was no longer breathing and that other part of him commanded him to take in some air. As he opened his mouth he promptly choked on it though it should have been impossible – it was as if his throat had suddenly closed up without warning.

Another small part told him that his coughs tasted like salt – salt and water.

He knew he was going into hysterics. If he knew, why wasn't he stopping it? Why wasn't he trying to make himself better, to calm himself down...?

The truth was, the tiny, rational part of his mind told him, that he had never had a proper chance to think and reflect over everything that had occurred in his life. Never had the chance to cry. Sure, he cried during Mana's death and a few times in the Organization, but those were all about each specific incident rather than his entire life.

He choked on the tears falling freely down his face, wrapping his arms around his legs in a self-secure way. God, he was having one of those midlife crisis-things Jerry always moaned about and he only listened to with half an ear whilst his food was being prepared.

How he was able to compare the situation would never cease to astound him.

The Fourteenth had left, of course. Gracefully as always, enviably spirit-like with each and every step. For the Noah, there was nothing to be gained in the presence of a mortal who was past his time and should have been dead, but was not. Allen preferred it that way; in the situation he was in, false words of comfort and company were really the last things he would have liked.

After all; no matter where he was, or where he would be, Allen Walker would always be alone; would have been alone.

And as the Musician, it was destined to be.

F_ool_ _mor_tal; _re_le_ase_ _you_r _hu_ma_nity_ _!_

End of Chapter Five.


End file.
